The Wound

My love for God is a wound
A pain that will not be healed
I have unwittingly tried to soothe it
By clearing the ground for music to grow, which it does with alarming sweetness
And reciting the
Trisagion prayer
in Greek
Oh, the lengths I have driven
I have carried on long conversations
with three-year-olds and wise Grandmothers
And awoken before God for the first peek of yellow
So lovely. So satisfying. So warming.
They were like a mother’s kisses on wet cheeks
They comforted and distracted
Until the swelling returned
And that unfortunate throbbing              
Some say the worst allusion we hold
is that we are separate from each other, I don’t know
But I think
The wounds of God may be 
that she wants our hearts to be broken,
and longing for peace;
Impatient to love the world and change it
And to be fed by those who have nothing
We are cut because we are thriving
And hope is not without pain
And the holy we find in the living
Is a mirror of God and a balm,
and for that I say,
“so be it.”
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